


a taste of time-sweetened honey

by cosmicbees



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dimitri opens up and Byleth feels something, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Male My Unit | Byleth, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Nicknames, Soft Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, but without ever saying Those Three Words, there's a lot of feelies in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22331614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicbees/pseuds/cosmicbees
Summary: Byleth has never had a nightmare, and Dimitri has had too many. They find comfort in one another.“I’ve never dreamt before,” Byleth admits quietly.“You—“ Dimitri pulls away, and Byleth fights the urge to bury himself in Dimitri’s warmth again. Instead, he turns himself over to Dimitri’s careful scrutiny, tilting his chin up. “You’ve never dreamt, at all?”Byleth shakes his head in answer, “no.”Dimitri’s little “oh,” is breathless, but he moves his hands to the sides of Byleth’s face, using his thumbs to brush tears from where they gather in the corners of Byleth’s eyes. “What did you dream about?”
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 15
Kudos: 378





	a taste of time-sweetened honey

Byleth cries. 

“ _ It looks like I’m going to have to leave you now _ .”

It’s not the first time he’s cried, he’s sure of it. The heat behind his eyes and the ache in his temples feel all too familiar, but he can’t seem to place the sensation. 

“ _ To think that the first time I saw you cry _ .” Jeralt’s voice trembles, and each word grows weaker, the syllables wavering as though they’re being pulled from him by force. “ _ Your tears would be for me _ .” 

Byleth opens his mouth, but all that comes out is an almost-inaudible whine. His father says something else, the quiet words lost to the sound of rain falling on his shoulders. Somehow, the weight in his hands feels familiar too. 

“ _ Thank you, _ ” Jeralt mumbles, eyes closing to the world around him for the last time. “ _ Kid. _ ” 

There’s a saccharine-sweet giggle behind him, and Byleth whips towards the sound, dropping his father from his arms and trying not to think about the sound his limp body makes when it hits the muddy earth. 

Monica stands before him again. She is still dressed in her academy uniform, but her face twists into something ugly and unrecognizable. She’s taunting him, cruel words spilling from her lips as she waves a dagger before him. Crimson red blood drips from the blade, coating it to the hilt in a syrupy layer that doesn’t wash away despite the downpour of rain. 

He lunges for her, tripping over Jeralt’s legs in his haste, and falling beside his father in the mud. Monica laughs again, holding the dagger just beyond Byleth’s reach as she dances a few steps further away. 

Covered in mud, with tears streaming down his face, Byleth screams. It’s an ugly, gut-wrenching sound that tears it’s way out of his chest with molten claws and fury as he reaches for his sword, but just as he wraps his fingers around the hilt, another voice sounds beside him. 

“Professor?” 

Byleth hesitates for a heartbeat, and it’s just long enough for Monica to disappear. He blinks, and shakes his head, pushing himself up onto unsteady feet. 

“Professor.”

The voice is closer this time, but still Byleth isn’t sure where it’s coming from. Maybe from behind a hedge? But—no, it sounded as though it was so much closer than that.

He tries to step forward. Blinking rainwater and tears from his eyes, scrubbing a dirty palm over his face, Byleth trips again. He looks down, overcome with a wave of nausea at the realization that Jeralt is no longer alone.

Beside him lies Dedue, face wet with tears and deep scarlet red bubbling from the corner of his mouth, and not far from him is sweet Mercedes. With wide eyes cast to the sky, her body is bent at such an unnatural angle that bile rises on the back of Byleth’s tongue at the mere thought of the pain she must have felt. And there’s Ashe, throat torn open and bleeding, lying near a body so mutilated that he only recognizes it as Sylvain from the mop of copper hair curling into the bloody grass. 

Byleth’s entire class is strewn about his feet, defeated and defiled by some unknown force. He has felt pain a thousand times, but never before has Byleth experienced an agony akin to this—to seeing everyone that he has ever loved discarded in a heap of limbs and half-rotted flesh. 

He swings his sword, blind in his agony, but a hand that is warm despite the cold rain wraps around his forearm. 

“Byleth!”

Dimitri’s face is mere inches from his own when Byleth jolts upright, blanket falling to the ground as he blinks sleep from his eyes. Dimitri’s fingers are firm where they’re pressed to the thin skin on the underside of Byleth’s wrist, but his other hand holds tight to his shoulders, digging into the muscle there. 

“Professor, it’s okay.” Dimitri smooths his thumb over the inside of Byleth’s palm. It’s meant to be soothing, but it just makes Byleth ache in a way he doesn’t wholly recognize. He tries to pull away from Dimitri’s grasp, but Dimitri tugs him in a little bit closer. 

“Where is Sylvain?” Byleth babbles reaching out to grab at the long fur that lines the collar of Dimitri’s cloak. “And Mercedes? Ashe—Dimitri, we have to go!” 

“Go where?” Confusion colors Dimitri’s voice. “Professor, they’re sleeping…it’s the middle of the night.” 

Byleth blinks up at him, seeing the man in front of him as though for the first time. This isn’t the seventeen year old Dimitri that was stretched out before him a moment before, limbs twisted and head discarded several meters away, blonde hair matted with blood. This Dimitri is older, brow furrowed as he holds tight to Byleth. Concern is writ clear across his face, and with a shuddering gasp, Byleth realizes—

“It’s just a dream,” Dimitri’s words are gentle, and Byleth feels like a child under his watchful eye. “A nightmare.” 

“I didn’t—“ his voice cracks, and he swallows against the lump in his throat, shaking his head. “I’ve never—“

Dimitri’s fingers slacken around Byleth’s wrist, and Byleth crumples forward, hands still fisted in the fur of Dimitri’s cloak as he lets out a broken-sounding sob. 

“Professor?” Dimitri is quiet, settling his palm in the center of Byleth’s back. “Everyone is okay.” 

Byleth  _ has  _ cried before, he knows this now. On the day his father died, Byleth had openly wept for the first time. Now, the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes don’t feel so foreign as they did then, but they certainly don’t feel earned, either. 

He buries his face in Dimitri’s chest, trying to hide the hiccups that come between the tears.

Dimitri’s mouth ghosts across the crown of Byleth’s head. He asks, “Are  _ you _ okay?” 

Byleth suppresses the shiver that threatens to run up his spine. “I’ve never dreamt before,” he admits quietly. 

“You—“ Dimitri pulls away, and Byleth fights the urge to bury himself in Dimitri’s warmth again. Instead, he turns himself over to Dimitri’s careful scrutiny, tilting his chin up. “You’ve never dreamt, at all?” 

Byleth shakes his head in answer. “No.”

Dimitri’s little “ _ oh _ ,” is breathless, but he moves his hands to the sides of Byleth’s face, using his thumbs to brush tears from where they gather in the corners of Byleth’s eyes. “What did you dream about?” 

Mouth parted around a response that won’t come, Byleth lets out a sigh instead. “It felt so real.” 

“The worst dreams always do.” Dimitri nods solemnly, but he doesn’t push for the answers that Byleth can’t find the words for. 

Dimitri studies Byleth for a moment before pulling away from the little cot, gathering himself as he stands. “Can I show you something?” 

Byleth looks to Dimitri’s outstretched hand before accepting it in his own. Dimitri’s hands are callused, palms rough from wielding his weapon with an iron grip for almost a decade. 

Byleth is minimally dressed in a simple roughspun tunic and trousers, and the chill of the night air sends a shiver down his spine hardly a moment after he steps free of his bedding. Before Byleth can reach for his own cloak, Dimitri reaches up to the delicate silver clasp on his own, unfastening it and wrapping the thick fabric around Byleth’s shoulders without a word between them. 

The cloak is too long for Byleth, who stands nearly a head shorter than Dimitri, and the rich, deep blue velvet pools around his feet. If Dimitri notices the way it drags behind Byleth, he says nothing on the matter, instead reaching out for Byleth’s hand again and tugging him out of the tent. 

This gentleness is unfamiliar to Byleth—he’s never seen Dimitri like this before—but still he follows obediently, stumbling over his sleep-weary feet.

The crescent moon is high overhead, casting their camp in an eerie off-white glow, despite hardly being a sliver in the night sky. There’s no sign of life besides Dimitri and Byleth, crossing the encampment hand-in-hand. On the outskirts of their campsite, Dimitri urges Byleth towards a loose crate, and shuffles away towards a supply wagon. 

“Why are you awake?” Byleth finally asks, voice breaking through the stillness around them. 

Dimitri shrugs, but keeps his back to Byleth, rifling through crate after crate. His response is quiet, barely audible above the faint rustling of the supplies. “I can’t sleep.” 

Byleth appraises him—the past months have taught him a new appreciation for the tired hunch of Dimitri’s shoulders, and the strength that Byleth  _ knows  _ lies beneath the armor there. Strength brought forth by years of training. Hard hours spent in the sun and snow. Countless battles won and lost. An untold number of lives taken by sheer force of will. 

Dimitri carries an unspeakable burden upon those shoulders—promises of revenge for his fallen family and the weight of his entire kingdom’s fate. 

“We march on Enbarr tomorrow,” Byleth says. It’s more than just an observation—it’s an explanation as well. There’s something heavy in the words, an acknowledgement of the fate that lies before them, just beyond the gates of the empire’s capital city.

“I’ve waited a long time,” Dimitri murmurs as he fishes a small, ceramic jar from the bottom of the supply wagon. “Fódlan has waited a long time.” 

Byleth cocks his head as Dimitri drags a crate over to sit across from him. “Are you prepared?”

Something dark crosses Dimitri’s face, understanding the question left unspoken. “I’ve wanted to kill her for far too long,” he answers plainly. “I’ve spent years dreaming of the day I could tear her limb from limb for what she’s done, but now that I stand on the precipice…there’s already so much blood on my hands.”

“You don’t have to kill anyone,” Byleth offers. It’s not that simple—it never is, but even if it’s just wishful thinking, it’s a nice idea. 

“I don’t have a choice,” Dimitri’s voice is thick with frustration. “If I let her live, she has a claim to the Adrestian throne, but if I kill her, maybe we’ll have a chance at peace in Fódlan.” 

“Peace sounds,” Byleth pauses, and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “Nice.”

“Have you ever really known peace, Professor?” 

Byleth thinks about it, but can’t pinpoint a moment in time. Maybe, once when he taught at the monastery he might have come close to it, but that was long enough ago that he can’t remember it clearly now. “No.” He shakes his head. “Have you?” 

Dimitri barks out a bitter laugh, and it serves as enough of an answer for Byleth to drop the subject. The silence between them stretched long and tenuous, but it’s not uncomfortable. Byleth scoots forward on his seat that he’s just that much closer to Dimitri, close enough that their knees are brushing. 

Dimitri’s gaze flickers down to the point of contact between them, and Byleth leans in to brush his fingers across Dimitri’s knuckles, still clinging tight to the jar. 

“What did you want to show me.”

“It seems silly now.” Dimitri’s hand grows tense beneath Byleth’s touch, but he still removes the wooden lid, thrusting the jar towards Byleth. “It’s just honey.” 

Byleth looks down at the offering—just honey, indeed. He cocks his head in question, brows furrowed as he glances back up to Dimitri. 

“Dedue always had sweets for me,” Dimitri rushes to explain. “After what happened in Duscur, I couldn’t sleep through the night without night terrors. I took to wandering the halls of the castle at night, and often found my way to the castle’s odd corners...to the servant’s quarters. Dedue never slept well either—just another thing that made us kindred spirits.” 

Byleth thinks he understands. Dedue and Dimitri were inseperable during their Academy days, a fact which many attributed to some kind of guilt on Dedue’s part, and the assumption that he served the prince out of guilt for whatever evil the people of Duscur had supposedly inflicted on the royal family. As their professor, and now as Dimitri’s friend, Byleth sees that it was so much more than that. They were two souls bonded by trauma, whose shared loss brought them together despite the darkest of circumstances, and who found comfort in knowing that they weren’t alone. 

Dimitri’s lips curl up into a sad sort of smile. “Dedue was very good at swiping sweets from the kitchens. I couldn’t taste any of them, not really, but they still made me feel better...they reminded me of something happier. I don’t know what demons haunt your dreams, Professor,” Dimitri presses the little ceramic jar into Byleth’s hands before continuing. “But if something as simple as this can keep them at bay—even if only for a short while—I would bring you all the honey in Fhirdiad.” 

Something sharp pulls in Byleth’s chest as he accepts the offering, the same prickling heat from earlier gathering behind his eyes again, and he wipes at his face with the back of his free hand. He wills the gathering tears to go away, but instead, they come more quickly than before. 

Panic overtakes Dimitri’s features, and he surges forward, nearly knocking Byleth over in his haste. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you!” He crouches before Byleth, tall enough that he’s still nearly eye-level despite their positions. 

“No, no,” Byleth shakes his head, but he’s crying still–fat, hot tears that well up and spill down his cheeks. “I’m not upset with you, Dimitri. I’m just not used to feeling...like this.”

Byleth can’t name the emotion, but it’s not completely unknown to him either. It is warmth that wraps around his entire chest and squeezes tight, anchoring him down with a fuzzy affection that courses through his entire body. It reminds him of the love he felt for his father–of fierce protectiveness and a desire to please, but it’s different all the same. 

Dimitri dotes on Byleth with gentle words and a tender touch that make Byleth feel...something. It makes Byleth feel something, when feeling is something he has so rarely done before.

“It’s sweet,” Byleth finally chokes out, managing what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Thank you for sharing with me. For thinking of me at all.” 

Dimitri looks dumbstruck, but he nods, slowly. 

“Sit with me?” Byleth asks, moving over so that there is space enough for Dimitri to sit beside him on the supply crate. Dimitri obliges, and it’s a tight squeeze, pressed shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, but Byleth doesn’t mind. 

He simply leans into Dimitri’s space, and dips a finger into the jar absentmindedly. The honey is sticky sweet, dripping from his hand, but Byleth draws it to his mouth quickly, avoiding a mess as best he can. Dimitri’s hands are folded in his lap, and he keeps his gaze there, resolutely avoiding looking towards Byleth at all. 

“You were in my dream,” Byleth admits quietly after a spell of silence between them. Dimitri sucks a sharp breath in. “But you were younger.” 

The response from Dimitri is a small, “Oh.” 

“Do you remember, years ago, the attack on one of Garreg Mach’s chapels? The day that my father died?” Byleth doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “I dreamt of that.”

Dimitri hums an acknowledgement, and Byleth dips his finger back into the honey. “I watched my father die again. I held him in my arms and felt him take his last breath, and it felt  _ so  _ real. But it wasn’t just him.” 

“You were there too, Dimitri. The entire class was—Annette and Mercedes and even Felix—everyone. Dead or dying at my feet, and I couldn’t help any of you.” 

“I dream about my father, too,” Dimitri mumbles, “it hasn’t gotten easier.” 

It doesn’t feel like five years have passed since Jeralt’s death, not when Byleth spent the vast majority of that time sleeping. The memory is still so fresh in his mind– the tired acceptance in his father’s eyes as the light faded from them. Byleth doesn’t know if it will fade with time, but he has to hope it will.

Dimitri has had nearly a decade to cope with the loss of his family, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough. He’s still haunted by the ghost of a long-dead father. Byleth has to wonder if Dimitri remembers the carnage as clearly as he does himself. Does the smell of blood ever wash out, or will it stay with them forever? In a way, Byleth doesn’t want to find out. 

“There’s already been too much bloodshed in this war,” Byleth sighs, pressing himself into Dimitri’s side, and holding the honey out to him. “I don’t know how much more I can stomach.” 

“You’re worried about tomorrow,” Dimitri says, accepting the jar gratefully. It’s a simple observation, but it strikes Byleth at his core. They’re both worried about what could happen in Enbarr. It is the riskiest move of the entire war, and their fate, as well as that of Fódlan, rests upon their success. Dimitri hums, “Your concern has followed you into your dreams...you’ve gotten soft in your old age.” 

“Old age,” Byleth huffs out half of a laugh, and shoves an elbow into Dimitri’s side. “I could say the same thing about you.” 

“You don’t look a day older than you did when I met you Remire.” Dimitri shakes his head, scooping a dollop of honey into his own mouth before setting the jar aside. “But I have changed more than I care to admit–in many ways I do not want to admit.” 

“You have.” Byleth turns his head to Dimitri, watching the King closely as he cleans the honey from his fingers. “You were so young at the Academy...and quite a bit shorter, if I recall correctly.” 

Dimitri turns to squint at Byleth. “Were you not shorter than me then as well, Professor?” 

“I was.” Byleth can’t seem to hold back a little grin. “But you grew so much while I was away. You’re taller now, and you carry yourself differently. There’s something much more aggressive to you than there was before–more graceful, too.” 

Dimitri returns the smile, mouth quirking up in the corner. “Perhaps it is the years I spent alone that hardened me.” 

“Perhaps,” Byleth admits. It would be foolish not to consider that part of Dimitri’s life formative to who he is now, but there’s more to it than that. He blinks up at Dimitri, and for the first time tonight he realizes that Dimitri is without his eyepatch. 

It is the first time Byleth has seen Dimitri without the piece of fabric, and he follows the urge that overtakes him. Reaching up and settling his palm on the side of Dimitri’s face, Byleth strokes his fingers over the hollow beneath Dimitri’s brow bone. There’s a scar across Dimitri’s face, and his eyelid is closed over what seems to be an otherwise- undamaged, but empty, eye socket. Dimitri’s good eye flutters closed at the touch. His lashes are full, soft as they fan across his cheeks, and Byleth lets out a little sigh. “You carry yourself like a king now, Dimitri. The king you have fought so hard to become, and a position which you assumed despite the entire world trying its best to keep you from it.” 

“I don’t deserve it,” Dimitri almost whimpers. “I don’t deserve any of it.” 

Byleth wants to cry again, but he doesn’t. The tortured prince from the Academy, eager to learn and eager to please has grown into a king under his tutelage. A king with faithful advisors he has the privilege of counting as his closest friends; a king whose soldiers would follow him into any battle, not out of blind devotion, but out of trust; a king with an iron will and determination to change the world around him; a king that is a force to be reckoned with.

“I’m so proud of you, Dimitri,” Byleth breathes, “ _ so _ proud of you in ways that you will never understand. You have fought for yourself and overcome so much. You have become a man I am proud to call  _ my  _ king.” 

“It is only because of you. You never gave up on me.” It’s Dimitri’s turn to cry, face still cradled in Byleth’s hands. His expression twists into something that breaks Byleth’s heart. “You walked into hell and dragged me out, even after everyone had abandoned me. You, alone, have done more for me than anyone–more than I could have done for myself–and I have no way to repay the debt.” 

“Just–” Byleth cleans Dimitri’s tears up with edge of his sleeve before they can run tracks down his face. “Just promise me you won’t die tomorrow.”

Dimitri frowns. “I can’t–”

“ _ Promise _ me, Dimitri,” Byleth interrupts him, voice firm. “You can repay whatever debt you think you owe me by fighting as hard as you can, and coming out alive. Whether we win or lose doesn’t matter, as long as you live. Fódlan has no hope save for you.” 

“Fódlan…” a watery laugh bubbles out of Dimitri, and his eyes crinkle up in the corners when he opens them and looks to Byleth. “For a moment I thought  _ you _ wanted me to live.” 

“Hush!” Byleth scolds, but there’s little heat to it. “Live for me, if you will! I would not ask it of you–not when you shoulder such a hefty burden already, but I wouldn’t turn you away.” 

Dimitri’s gaze flickers down for just a moment, before he meets Byleth’s eyes again. There’s hardly a breath between them, and still, he clings to Dimitri. 

“May I?” Dimitri murmurs, grabbing a handful of Byleth’s borrowed cloak. 

Byleth isn’t entirely sure what it is that Dimitri asks of him, but he nods dumbly. “Of course.”

Dimitri leans in impossibly close, ghosting his lips across Byleth’s cheek. “You needn’t ask me to live for you when it is something I have already done for so long.” 

Pulse pounding in his ears, Byleth tilts his head up to close what scant distance remains between them. The kiss is soft to start–a simple and polite peck, but after a moment, Dimitri’s grip on the cloak tightens, and he leans into it with a sigh that sends Byleth’s head spinning. 

Dimitri tastes of fresh honey, sticky sweet in a way that reminds Byleth of late summer sunshine and the clover fields in the south of Faerghus that Byleth had marveled at as a child. Those endless swathes of emerald green and crisp white were the first place that Byleth had ever wanted to call home, among the swarms of honey bees and butterflies. 

Dimitri’s hand slides from the front of Byleth’s cloak, to the side of his neck, pressing his thumb into the tender spot on the underside of Byleth’s jaw. A quiet little groan slips out of Byleth, and he pulls back reluctantly, stroking his thumbs across Dimitri’s cheekbones. “Forgive me,” he murmurs, resting their foreheads together. 

Dimitri frowns, and presses a quick kiss to the side of Byleth’s mouth. “There is nothing to be forgiven.” 

“You are a king,” Byleth reminds him with a quavering voice, “and I am little more than a mercenary in a general’s uniform.” 

“Above anyone else, you alone have earned this right.” Dimitri pulls his shoulders back, leaning away before drawing Byleth in close again, arms wrapped tight around him so that he can press a kiss to the crown of his head. He mumbles a muffled, “You should already know that.” 

Byleth snakes his arms around Dimitri’s back and leans into the embrace. “Thank you,” he sighs.

“Professor, I—“

“Byleth,” Byleth cuts Dimitri off, voice gentle. “Please, call me Byleth. I haven’t been your professor in years.”

“It feels improper to do so,” Dimitri says, pulling back to frown down at Byleth.

“It’s no more improper than me calling you Dimitri.” 

“But I  _ am  _ Dimitri.”

Byleth feels a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he nods, “but you are also His Majesty Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, King of Faerghus and soon to be ruler of a United Fódlan. Is it not improper for me to simply refer to you as ‘Dimitri’ when you are so much more than that?” 

“And you are much more than just Byleth!” Dimitri insists, ducking his head to hide the flush that rises in his cheeks. 

“I suppose I am,” Byleth concedes, “but am I not more to you than just your professor?” 

“You are!” Dimitri insists. Scarlet red has overtaken his entire face as he sits beside Byleth, the cool moonlight casting him in an ethereal glow. 

Byleth wants so terribly to tease him, just to see if the flush grows deeper. “You have already kissed me, Dimitri.” 

“I have, haven’t I?” Dimitri bows his head in mock defeat, breathing out a sigh between his teeth. “Byleth...” 

“Yes?” 

“I will live through tomorrow, no matter what happens on the battlefield.” There’s cold determination in Dimitri’s words and a hard set to his shoulders. “But we will emerge victorious, and Fódlan will be united again. I can promise you that, if you will promise me one thing in return.” 

A thrill runs through Byleth at the words, at the promise of tomorrow being another step forward. Another step closer to peace. “What would that be?” 

“Promise me that, regardless of all else, you will stand beside me as we march forward, and that you, too, will live through to see another day.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Byleth says, a smile creeping across his face. 

“I couldn’t bear a world without you in it, Byleth.” Dimitri’s smile is small, but sad in its sincerity. “I have done it once and I will not do it again.”

Head cocked, Byleth watches Dimitri for a moment, he looks as though he is shivering, and when Byleth settles a hand on his thigh, he can feel the quiver of Dimitri’s body. “I quite like how you say my name.” 

Dimitri blinks down at him, a sly smile on his face. “If you ever find that you tire of it, just let me know.” 

“I don’t think that I will,” Byleth sighs, pushing himself to his feet and holding a hand out for Dimitri. “Come now, you look as though you’re getting cold, Dimitri.” 

Dimitri accepts Byleth’s help, and allows himself to be lead back to Byleth’s tent. Byleth lights the little oil lamp beside his cot, only to find that his blanket is still on the ground from where he had pushed it aside earlier. He can feel the heat rising in his own face as he picks it up, hoping that Dimitri doesn’t notice his embarrassment, even as he pulls him further into the tent. 

Byleth shoos him to the back of the tent, towards the little lamp and the pile of bedding. “It’s warmer in here than it is outside.” 

Dimitri eyes him warily, but settles on the edge of the cot, watching as Byleth unfastens the cloak from around his neck, and moves to sit beside him. They’re both quiet for a while, Byleth leaning into Dimitri’s side,

“I don’t want to be alone right now,” Byleth finally admits, voice quiet. 

“Me either,” Dimitri hums, reaching out to tangle their fingers together. 

“You can stay.” 

Dimitri opens his mouth and turns to Byleth. He says nothing for a moment, until, “People will talk.” 

Byleth shrugs, and unlaces his boots, scooting into his tiny cot until he is pressed against the tent’s back wall. “Let them.” 

Dimitri barks out a quiet laugh, and follows suit, pulling his overshirt from his body and kicking his boots aside. Byleth holds the blankets up, making space for Dimitri as best he can. 

Dimitri shuffles in as close as he can, turning to face Byleth. The oil lamp still burns, offering just enough light for Byleth to appreciate the sharp line of Dimitri’s jaw against the pillow and the way his blonde hair falls into his face. 

Dimitri speaks first, pressing their legs together beneath the blankets, and licking his lips nervously. “You can call me Dima, if you’d like.” 

“Dima,” Byleth repeats, the name rolling off his tongue easily. “It’s pretty…” 

“It’s what my family called me when I was growing up,” Dimitri says. “I always liked it.”

Byleth smiles in understanding. “My father just called me ‘ _ kid _ ,’ but it felt so dear.”

“Should I call you kid, too?” Dimitri asks. A mischievous smile creeps across his face when Byleth shakes his head. 

“My king,” Byleth murmurs, pressing a kiss to Dimitri’s nose, “Dimitri…” 

A small smile crosses Dimitri’s face, and he steals a quick kiss. “Byleth.” 

Another kiss. 

And another. 

“Thank you for everything,” Byleth can’t help but laugh into Dimitri’s mouth, hands pressed to his cheeks. It’s comfortable like this, close to one another and laughing, touching just to touch. “Dima.” 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :) this is my first fic for a new fandom!
> 
> I don't bite and I love to make friends so come say hey on [twitter](https://twitter.com/cosmicbeebees)!
> 
> big thanks to [liz](https://twitter.com/disloyalpunk) for reading over this!


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